Devil with a Blue Dress On
by some blue december
Summary: Watching her like that is torture. She calls it torture, anyway; you call it the best kind of foreplay.


**Disclaimer:** _The Outsiders_ is property of S.E. Hinton, and "Devil with a Blue Dress On" belongs to Mitch Ryder and The Detroit Wheels.

**A/N:** Rated T for language and sexual references. This is Dallas, after all.

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_Hey, wearin' her perfume, Chanel No. 5  
Got to be the finest girl alive_

You can see right down her blouse. It's a beautiful sight, really. There's not much you'd call beautiful, but the view she's giving you - and the whole goddamn roadhouse - is fucking perfect. The black blouse barely covers the pale skin it's supposed to and your mouth waters at the red lace of her bra peeking out. As far as you're concerned, she looks good enough to fuck right there on the table she's so carefully leaning over.

It's just unfortunate for all involved that she's sitting on the other side of the room, leaning toward Ricky fucking Bolton, one of life's biggest shitheads.

Scowling, you throw back the shot of whiskey you're holding. Sometimes you really hate the little bitch. Hate her with a kind of passion that borders on an insane kind of lust. The kind of lust that only she brings out in you. Her blonde, curly hair, her pouty red lips, and her narrowed green eyes don't do a damn thing but make your eyes narrow and your jeans tighten. Stupid fucking broad.

It's not like there's anything special about her, either. Because there's not. There's nothing more special about her than there is about the brunette sliding her hand over your thigh, or the redhead from the drive-in last weekend. Sylvia might be your type, but there's not one special fucking thing about her.

Especially not the curvy waist your stare is drawn to as she stretches. Jesus Christ.

Her gaze meets yours from across the crowded roadhouse, and she raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. You smirk back; amused by the glare she gives you, but kicking yourself for having been caught watching her … watching her and her stupid fucking moves that you know are for your benefit and no one else's.

It grates on your nerves, and you wish it didn't. _She_ grates on your nerves, and you hate her. You hate her because she's a bitch, but you're pretty sure she's a bitch because you hate her - or want her. Or both. Whatever it is, it sure is a pain in your ass.

Hating her, wanting her, being with her - it's all too much of a hassle to put up with. But for some foolish reason, you do; you take her back after she dates around, she takes you back after you sleep around, you hate, you want, you fuck … and the fucking makes it worth it. Your smirk grows at the thought and you glance at the brunette next to you, unable to remember her name. Not that you care. You don't want her; brunettes don't do it for you.

Blondes however …

She's twirling one of her long curls around her finger as she flirts with Bolton, and you want to rip the goddamn finger off and shove it down her throat - sharp painted nail and all. Little tramp. If she really thinks she can get away with this bullshit then she's got another thing coming. Going out with some other hood while you're locked up is bad enough; flirting with another now that you're out is just bad fucking manners. Even if you did say you were done with her.

And you meant it when you said it - you were done with her. Still would be if it weren't for that fucking red lace. Christ, she sure knows how to draw you back in. She knows what you like - knows how to make you fucking furious with uncontrollable need for her. She'll deny it until she's blue in the face - all innocence, she is - but there isn't another girl who can twist you like she does. Hell, there isn't another girl who does a lot of the things Sylvia does.

Pouring yourself another shot, you listen with one ear to the whispering of the brunette next to you. It's just too bad for her that you're not listening with the ear she's whispering into. Doesn't matter anyway; you don't give two shits what she's talking about. She reminds you too damn much of that Evie broad. Too skinny and boyish for your liking; you don't get what Steve sees in her.

Sylvia on the other hand … she's got curves - the right curves - and she knows how to use them against you. You sigh; she sure is a looker. But you try not to look. You pointedly take a large drink and look away because now she's got Bolton sitting next her and only one of her hands is above the table. Stupid fucking bitch. It's not like you're jealous, though. Just because you can't stand seeing her with another guy doesn't make you jealous.

You look at her and smirk when she catches your gaze. Nope, not jealous, just possessive of what's yours, and there's no way in hell she's not still yours. Doesn't matter how often you tell her you're done - she'll always be yours. And she knows it. If she didn't know it, she wouldn't be making such a fucking performance for you while sitting in the one seat you have a clear view of, and she definitely wouldn't be leaning over to re-buckle the perfectly buckled strap of her shoe, flashing you a glimpse of the lace at the top of her stockings … fucking hell.

Swallowing hard, you try not to groan aloud at the sight before you - tasty legs covered in what you now know for sure are those sexy little thigh highs, tumbling curls that your fingers itch to bury themselves in, and there - practically falling out of her blouse and red lace bra - your favourite part of her body … her soft, creamy - and once again she catches you staring. Fuck.

She looks at you, eyes wide. Your breath hitches, and you're done for. Bitch.

So she dated another guy. You're not an idiot; you know Sylvia and you know it was nothing more than a date, some kissing, and a little company while you were locked up. It definitely puts her in the two-timing tramp category, but hell, you've done worse. And when she licks her lips, sitting up and taking a drink, you decide that another date under her belt is nothing compared to all the notches on yours

You sprawl back in your chair, throwing your arm across the back of the brunette's chair, and giving Sylvia your best smirk - the one reserved only for her - you know she'll be warming your sheets by the end of the night. That's why you're at Buck's after all; you need to let off a little steam after the week you've had, and getting laid is much less painful and much more fun than getting into a fight.

Sylvia glares at you, looking frustrated and annoyed. Lifting your free hand, you beckon her over. You don't hear it, but you see her scoff, and you can't help but chuckle when she flips you off. She _will_ give in to you, but fuck she's stubborn. You don't care. Hell, you like it. It's the feisty things about her that keep you going back and you both know it; the way she snaps right back at you when you're pissed off, the way she yells and screams when she wants to get her point across, and the way she goes absolutely fucking crazy for you when you get a little rough in bed.

You blink, pushing those thoughts away and glancing back at Sylvia just as she gets out of her chair and heads toward the bathroom. She won't look at you, but she's not stupid, either; she knows you'll follow. As tempted as you are to sit back and make her come to you, she's teased you enough for one fucking night. You get up, ignoring the brunette, and head down the hallway.

Fingering the keys in your pocket and leaning against the wall, you wait patiently while she uses the bathroom. No need to get worked up and make her hurry her business; she's yours and you'll have her upstairs within minutes. As stubborn as Sylvia is, she's also predictable, and she hasn't turned you down once.

And she won't this time. You can tell as soon as she walks out and sets her sights on you. She could leave - walk right past you and make you work for it - but she doesn't. She waits and watches you - blonde, curly hair hanging down her shoulders, pouty lips looking extra red, and green eyes glaring.

You say nothing. You push yourself away from the wall and stand in front of her, giving her a smirk that would make her melt even in her iciest mood. Leaning down, you capture her plump lips and kiss her. And fuck, what a kiss it is. You tangle your fingers into her soft hair, you slide your tongue into her mouth, and you press your chest against that blouse and red fucking lace. And she lets you. She fucking wants you, and how you ever thought you hated her is beyond you.

Her hands tug at your hair, her teeth nip at your lips, and her body arches against yours. And then she's asking for it - practically fucking begging you to take her back. You know it's because she wants you, somehow cares about you and wants to be with you - and you suppose you care about her, too … when she's not being a bitch - but for now you're too fucking happy with the prospect of screwing what's yours to worry about that shit. You're too fucking thrilled to let her lead you upstairs to worry about anything.

Tomorrow you'll head up Jay Mountain to see Johnny and the kid; tonight, you get laid.

_Devil with the blue dress, blue dress, blue dress  
Devil with the blue dress on_

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**A/N: **Thanks to RileysMomma for beta-reading, and aerodynamics for her feedback.

All reviews are appreciated :)


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